States of Grace by Mandy Miller (top 100 books of all time checklist .TXT) 📕

amount. But you know how that goes,” he says, looking at me as if I’m an example of what happens when Xanax becomes like candy. Or maybe it’s my paranoia talking.

“When I followed up, she became hysterical. I’d advise you to stay off that topic for now since you’ll require her cooperation in preparing her defense.”

“I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that if it were to become public that Zoe tried to kill herself, it would greatly impact her ability to get a fair trial.”

He gapes at me. “Do I look like I was born yesterday? That goes without saying. You can count on my discretion. And, Ms. Locke, I’m available to discuss this further, but right now I have to get going to another appointment. I’ll have my written report to you within a couple of days. And, please, as I said, do take a careful look at the records. They are self-explanatory, even for a layperson like yourself, and enlightening, if not a little frightening. Don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions.”

If I had a dollar for every shrink I’ve seen since Iraq, I’d be living the high life on a tropical island with an umbrella drink, the nightmares and heart palpitations behind me.

And if I were a lay person, I wouldn’t be out here in the swamp trying to find a way to turn Zoe’s mental illness into a positive.

***

An orderly shepherds me across a courtyard ringed with several empty benches, over a shuffleboard court, and through a byzantine web of corridors and locked doors, selecting a different key for each one from the dozens on a life-preserver-sized metal ring on his belt.

I point at his ID badge. Etienne Dumas.

“Where are you from, Etienne?” I ask, employing my best French accent. My father insisted I take four years of high school French because it’s the “language of diplomacy.” Or maybe it was when he was young, because the only benefit I’ve ever reaped from the forced march through verb conjugationsand Molière was knowing what wine to order and what the lyrics “Voulez-vous couchez avec moi, ce soir,” meant when my mother sang along as if she were ordering a pot of Earl Grey tea.

“Here,” Etienne says, in a tone which implies, “Where the hell do you think I’m from?”

“Okay, then.”

He hangs his head. “I’m sorry. Haiti, originally,” he says, perhaps embarrassed due to the misconception some in South Florida have about Haitians being a lower class of immigrants. Haitians get sent back if they’re caught washing upon shore. Cubans set a foot on dry land and they’re in.

“I’m called Eddy now.” He fingers the ID, rubbing at his name, as if trying to blot out his past. Likely one where crossing shark-infested waters in a rickety raft seemed preferable to hunger and persecution.

Eddy delivers me to the nurse’s station on the Dolphin Unit.

“I’m here to see Ms. Slim,” I tell the duty nurse, omitting Zoe’s first name to avoid any further confusion.

I turn to thank Eddy, but all that’s left of him is a door sucking shut to hermetically seal me in to the locked psych unit, a sound with which I am not unacquainted.

The nurse catches me looking over her shoulder through a window into a tiny white cave where a man in tightie-whities is twirling like a dervish, hitting the deck only to rise up and twirl some more. She whisks me off to a meeting room clearly designed in the prison version of Bauhaus, with the added design feature that the rectangular table and four chairs are bolted to the floor.

Zoe, dressed in green scrubs, is seated in the chair nearest the door, her body listing to one side.

“Ms. Zoe, your lawyer is here.”

Zoe doesn’t bat as much as one eyelid.

“I can take it from here.” I slide onto a chair next to her.

The nurse points at a red HELP button on the wall. “Press, if there’s any trouble.”

I dip my head to see Zoe’s face beneath a tangle of hair. “How’re you doing?”

She flips her hair back to reveal a purple egg-shaped bump protruding from the middle of her forehead like a third eye.

“Jesus, how’d you get that?”

A shrug. “Just happened.”

“You okay? Did you have someone look at that?”

I make a move to take a closer look, but she waves me off.

I make a note to tell the nurse my confidence in the medical care shaky in this place where a bump on the head is not a priority.

“Look, this is only temporary,” I say, but the words ring hollow, the bars on the window a reminder of the opposite—the real possibility she might never be free again.

Reading my mind, she says, “Until I go to prison,” words slurred, eyelids droopy like baggy pantyhose, clearly she is doped to the gills.

During the tour, I asked what kind of therapies were available. The administrator replied, “Drug therapy is our go-to therapy,” and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together to indicate other options were too expensive. Whatever therapy Zoe’s getting, it’s robbing her of any last vestige of energy to help herself, the urge to fight like she did in front of Twietmeyer, without which our defense will fail, regardless of any smoke and mirrors I can conjure up.

“Like I told you at the jail, I watch the news,” she says in the flat tone of one for whom all hope is gone. “Everyone thinks I did it.” She looks down at her hands, fanned out like palm fronds, nails bitten down to the quick. “But what do you think?”

I sit back. “What matters is what the State can prove, and that’s what I came to talk about, but I do also want to listen to whatever else you have to say. I’m sorry I didn’t do that in the jail.”

Her eyes brighten enough for me to see they’re flecked with gold. “Thank you, Ms. Locke.”

“It’s Grace, remember? Would it be okay if I asked you some questions, first?”

She crosses her